High Rhulain

On that misty morning, every free otter gathered there in force to celebrate the victory over their foes. A huge cauldron of kelp and seafood stew bubbled over a sizeable fire of driftwood, charcoal and sea coal. A jubilant air prevailed overall, with little ones playing games of jinkshells and elders gathering round the far side of the fire to gossip and exchange news with friends and relatives. Ould Zillo the Bard sat in a corner, composing a ballad of the night’s heroic events. Otterwives doled out freshly baked pawpad turnovers and bowls of stew.

A jolly, wide-girthed old grandfather named Birl Gully was pouring tankards of his home-brewed invention from a barrel to a waiting line of clanbeasts. His vast stomach wobbled with merriment as he passed out the stuff.

“Hohoho! Come on, me bhoyos, drink ’earty now! There ain’t nothin’ like my Gullyplug Punch t’put the curl back in yore whiskers. ’Twill give ye a rudder like a rock an’ backfur like velvet moss!”

Big Kolun Galedeep carried two tankards outside the curtain of vegetation which covered the cave front. Leatho was seated on a rock outside, staring into the thick, rolling mist that lay upon the calm, ebbing tide. Sitting beside the outlaw, Kolun gave him a tankard of Birl Gully’s punch.

“Git that down yore throat, matey. ’Twill warm the cockles of yore ’eart!”

Leatho sipped pensively, still silently watching the sea mists. Big Kolun was not renowned as a sipper. Emptying his tankard in two swallows, he wiped the back of a hefty paw across his mouth.

“Well now, Shellhound. The clans seem t’be enjoyin’ theirselves in there, while yore mopin’ about out ’ere. Wot ails ye, mate? You can tell me.”

Leatho swilled the punch around in his tankard. “One single victory don’t mean we’ve won the war, Kolun. That wildcat ain’t goin’ to hold still after wot we’ve done. Felis is bound to come back at us hard as he can. I don’t know exactly how the villain’ll do it. So ’tis up to me to try an’ outthink him.”

Kolun threw a paw around his friend’s shoulders. “Aye, well, you do yore outthinkin’ later, buckoe. Yore wanted in there right now. C’mon, stir yore rudder!”

Rousing cheers greeted the outlaw as he joined the throng. Amid copious back slapping and paw shaking, he was escorted to a seat of honour by the fire. Leatho had issues he wanted to address the otters about, but as he made to rise, Big Kolun’s missus, Deedero, shoved him firmly back down, proclaiming, “Arrah, sit ye down, Shellhound. The bard’s composed a fine lay about ye. Whisht now, the singer’s got the floor!”

Ould Zillo’s rudderdrum began thrumming the beat, whilst a flute and fiddle joined in. The one-eyed bard launched into his newly written ballad.

“Harroo for the Shellhound, ain’t he the bold beast,

he’s the hero we’ve all come to toast at this feast,

for he singed the cat’s tail, and put flame to his fort,

the whiskery tyrant, his threats came to nought!

O pity those slaves who were bound ’neath the pier,

an’ for the three babies we all shed a tear,

all sentenced to death in the dreaded Deeplough,

’twas enough to put any pore otter in shock!

’Til the Shellhound arrived in the dark o’ the night,

an’ to the cats’ fortress his warriors set light,

with freedom their watchword, they championed the

cause,

as they battled with catguards along the lakeshores!

With slingstone an’ spear they attacked the cruel foe,

an’ as for the outcome, well I’m sure that ye know,

they freed the brave captives an’ got clear away,

an’ were back here safe home by the dawn of the day!

Ye wicked ould wildcat this lesson ye’ll learn,

or yore guards will be slain an’ yore fortress’ll burn,

sure ye’ll wail in the ashes an’ stamp the bare ground,

an’ ye’ll rue the sad day that ye met the Shellhound!

Shellhound. . . . Shellhound . . . Shellhooooouuuuund!”

All around the cave, voices and tankards were raised. “Leatho! Leatho! Speech speech speech!”

Taking the floor, the outlaw held up his paws until order was restored. “Friends, clanbeasts, my thanks to ye! But ’twas not just me who did the deed. There were many brave ones with me who are worthy of yore praise—warriors, who risked life an’ limb to free our good friends. Hearken to me now! Riggu Felis will be yearnin’ to avenge his defeat. That wildcat is a powerful an’ savage foebeast. Aye, an’ if I’m yore leader, then I’ve got this to say. All our otterclans are not yet ready to face the cats. Not until we’re all united behind one High Queen, the Rhulain!”

More cheers and chanting broke out. “Eeayeeeeeh! Rhulain! High Rhulaaaaain!”

Ould Zillo the Bard whacked his drum until they stopped. “Sure will ye not hold yore noisy gobs now an’ give the goodbeast a chance? Where’s yore manners? Leatho has the floor! Best of order now, all round the cave, d’ye hear!”

Nodding his thanks to the old otter, Leatho continued. “We’ll get nowhere if’n we don’t lay the ground with some hard plannin’ now. Do ye not realise that Felis still holds more than a hundred slaves?”